


The Joyful Expansion of House Theirin

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aeron Tabris, Aeron/Alistair, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3714058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A glimpse into a potential future. Nervousness, joy, terror, excitement... But together. Always together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Joyful Expansion of House Theirin

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to my friend Andy for giving me [so many Alistair feels](http://crisontumblr.tumblr.com/post/115600312688/dammit-andy-id-just-recovered-from-thinking) that I couldn't ignore them and had to write about them.
> 
> Additional shout-outs to the DA wikia for being _ridiculously_ well-detailed. I don't know where I would've been without it.

**Growth.  
** The changes seem to happen almost rapidly after they received confirmation from the resident healer. Every day brings something new. Sometimes the changes feel like they come by the  _hour_ instead. Still, they were warned it would be like this, and they agreed to pursue it. They want this. Have wanted this for some time now, in fact. Almost thought it would be impossible, until…it wasn’t.

The lack of energy in and of itself is not so bad—and, in fact, lends itself to spending lazier days curled up together in bed, trying to decide on names. Wearing armor becomes a problem. Aeron quickly abandons it altogether after it becomes near impossible to don a chest plate without incurring further pain in her breasts than should be rightly allowed.

More than once, Alistair catches his wife standing before the full-length mirror in their bathroom—sometimes clothed, sometimes not, but always with a studious expression on her face; as if she is trying to capture even the most minute of changes in her body.

“It’s like I’m thirteen all over again,” she tells him once when he lingers long enough to get caught. “Everything is just…exploding everywhere. Changing. Growing. It’s so strange. Thinking about it is just…strange. I have two lives inside of me—my own and…and theirs.”

The mere implication is enough to make Alistair’s heart flutter.

_Our child. Hers and mine._

“It’s beautiful,” he says aloud, going to her. “You’re beautiful.”

“Please remember that when I’m as round as the moon and twice as big.”

And Alistair can only gently shush her, because he has never been very good at explaining the full depth of how much he loves her and will continue to love her—though he has tried, repeatedly, with varying degrees of success.

 **Just “Sickness” will Suffice.  
** Sometimes, the process is not so beautiful.

They were warned about these things, too—the nausea, the headaches, the mood swings—but warnings only help so much. _Especially_ when it comes to dealing with the nausea. Who knew a single person could produce so much in the way of unwanted waste? It’s almost marvelous to consider.

Albeit not aloud, within earshot of the one doing the vomiting. Even Alistair knows that.

“Whoever labeled it ‘morning sickness’ should be shot with a hundred flaming arrows,” Aeron grunts during a particularly bad spell. “Shot, flayed, and served to the nearest Broodmother on a silver _fucking_ platter.”

And he can only nod in sympathy as he strokes her hair, quietly counting out in his head how much time is left before she can have another tincture for the nausea.

It always seems like much too long.

 **A Mother to Her Troops! (Usually.)**  
As gifts, Leliana sends dresses direct from Orlais; beautifully handcrafted pieces in jewel tones that flatter Aeron’s brown skin and white hair. She sends along slippers that look as if spun from gold and silver. When Aeron’s old clothes start to get too tight, these dresses finally see the light of day.

The first time Alistair sees Aeron in one of these dresses—a ruby-colored number with layered skirts and intricate gold detailing on the bodice and many hems—his heart practically trips over itself. When the Elf comes down to breakfast another day in an emerald dress, the design of which allows for the exposure of her shoulders, his food goes cold.

 _If you could just see her now_ , Alistair writes in one of his letters, _it would save me the struggle of searching for the proper words. I’m almost certain that they don’t exist. Let me try instead by describing something that happened recently. We were invited to the palace for an event two nights ago and Aeron wore this dress that even now kind of reminds me of a sunset. She wove gold threads into her braided hair and wore it around her head like a crown. When we arrived, you could have easily heard a pin drop. All through the night, nobles kept approaching her, eager to be in her presence—and I promise you, Leliana, it wasn’t just because she is the ‘hero of Ferelden.’ It was as if everyone could finally see her as I always do. There was such look of envy on Anora’s face as the night wore on… Maker, it was priceless!_

Her subordinates take longer to get used to their commander’s softer look. Draped in these gentler fabrics, wearing such dainty shoes, she looks almost like a queen. Beautiful, yes, but also rather delicate. Fragile. Very much _not_ the warrior who ended the Fifth Blight a mere four years ago.

Maybe that’s why Aeron takes to wearing Starfang at her hip again. Maybe that is also why, in a dress that makes Alistair think of winter dusk, she decides to remind them all of just why she is Commander of the Grey.

 _I tried to stop her, but you know how she is_ , he writes in another letter to Leliana. _Aeron just waited until I was called away for an errand. When I came back, three of the newest recruits were sitting off to the side of the sparring ring holding poultices to various parts of their bodies. A fourth was in the process of being knocked flat on her back._

 _Now that I have stopped panicking,_ Alistair adds, _I have to admit that it was really quite impressive. However, for all our sakes, I did very politely ask her not to do that again._

 **…By Any Other Name.**  
Aeron writes her own letters. One in particular goes out to the Keeper of the Dalish clan they helped what sometimes feels like so long ago.

> _Keeper Lanaya,_
> 
> _I write seeking your help, though it’s nothing as harrowing as what you were dealing with when I came through. Alistair and I are anticipating a child soon, but neither one of us can settle on a name. It’s becoming something of an impossible puzzle for both of us. Recently, however, I was trying to remember a word that I heard often while we stayed in your settlement. The word itself escapes me, but I believe it held the same connotation as “beloved.” I was wondering if you could tell me what it was—and, more importantly, if such a word would even be appropriate as a name for too many reasons to list. I have no illusions about how easy our child will have it; last thing I want to do is make things even more difficult for them with a name that unintentionally strikes offense._
> 
> _Thank you._
> 
> _Aeron Tabris  
>  Commander of the Grey, Ferelden_

The response comes swifter than she expects, in the hand of a Dalish midwife who also brings a gift of handcrafted wooden toy animals.

> _Commander,_
> 
> _Such wonderful news! I remember well how fondly the Warden-Constable regarded you when you first came to our aid; how overwhelmed he was with emotion when you two married. I can only imagine he is eagerly counting the days. Upon hearing the news, Varathorn was inspired to craft a set of toys for the little one, akin to the ones our children play with here. I have sent, also, one of our best midwives to aid you in the rest of your journey to motherhood. Ask of her whatever you require._
> 
> _As to the matter of the word: I believe that what you refer to is in fact the phrase ‘ma vhenan,’ which I have always favored for its beauty and tenderness. I can’t say with honesty that it would be the best name for a child, given that I have always seen its connotation attached to the affection between lovers. That said, there are names in our language that are along the sentiment you are hoping to impart. I have included a list of them below, along with their pronunciations and approximate translations into the Common tongue, so that you and your husband might go through them._
> 
> _May the Creators bless your growing family and keep you all safe, ma falon._
> 
> _\- Lanaya_

**Cravings.**  
She calls them salt chews. Take a fish and soak it in brine for twelve hours. Cook the result in a smoker for eight hours. At some point in this process (neither of them is really sure when or how), turn this fish into a series of tightly packed fish-meat cubes. Store them in a glass jar, twenty or thirty at a time. Sell them for a handful of silvers.

Alistair tries them once. The taste is what seawater might taste like if turned into a jellied snack. He passes on a second offer.

“More for me then,” is all Aeron answers with a shrug and a little smile, popping another into her mouth with all the joy someone might (more rightly) show a jar of candies. “More for us, I should say.”

That night, Alistair dreams of a child with gills and fins.

 **The Obligatory “Mirror, Mirror” Reference.**  
Alistair catches Aeron standing in front of their full-length mirror for the first time in months, almost comically pressing her face together between her hands. She announces that her cheeks have gotten bigger, softer. Her breasts have outsized her biggest supports.

“I can’t even remember the last time I was able to _see_ my toes, much less reach them.” With a little sigh, Aeron drops her hands. “I really am as round as the full moon—”

“And you are just as radiant.” Alistair goes to her. He rests his chin on her shoulder. “More beautiful, even.”

“Flatterer—” Aeron gasps, grabs his hand. “Oh, wait—”

“Hm?”

“Wait.” She puts his hand to her belly, fingers woven in between his. “Just…”

They wait there, in front of the mirror, for what feels like eternity. And then he feels it, a gentle kick; the mirror captures Alistair’s wide-eyed wonder, the gentle kiss he presses to her temple as he laughs softly. His heart feels feather-light.

“You see there? Our child agrees.”

“Flatterers,” Aeron says, smiling. “Both of you.”

 **Unfortunately, Some Things Never Change.**  
They have nightmares.

In hers, she gives birth to a member of darkspawn. It always starts idyllic, the birthing process itself practically painless, and then the child emerges. The wonder shatters. Everything becomes hellish, painful—almost as if she is being split in two. The so-called “child” itself is a snarling, wriggling genlock covered in dark blood and gore. It always ends with the creature screeching.

In his, he is always forced to make a choice between saving his wife and saving his child. The situations are always different—a complication during birth, kidnappers demanding ransom, anti-Elven rioters—but the horror is always in the choosing. It never is the right decision. The end results are always violent.

Those nights are punctuated with screams and cold sweat.

Those nights are also full of gentle whispers and reassurances. She strokes his hair. He offers jokes. They find comfort and protection in each other’s arms. When they drift off again, their evening passage through the Fade is more peaceful. By morning’s light, the fears vanish and their resolve is renewed.

 **Several Old Things…**  
Arl Eamon and comes to visit with the Arlessa. They bring gifts for the future little one. Clothing, books, toys… Some of them used to belong to Connor. Others, Alistair recognizes as his own, including an old stuffed griffon with black button eyes.

“Oh, look at _this_! It’s Lord Gruff!” He looks beyond pleased as he shakes it in Aeron’s direction. “We had such grand adventures around the castle…”

“And now it looks like he’ll get to go on new ones.” She takes it from him, smoothing down the feathers. “What a precious little thing.”

Alistair frowns a little. “Precious? No! Lord Gruff is a courageous, noble ally in the fight against evil!”

“Who is also precious,” Aeron says. “Kind of like you.”

There is something else they bring with them—a small wooden chest of letters from King Maric, intended for Alistair. Why he wrote them, never sent them… Not even Eamon knows. Saving them felt important and now, with Alistair on the cusp of fatherhood, it feels as appropriate a time as ever to pass them on. The younger man is surprised. He stares down at the box, gaze running over the engraving of a Mabari on the lid.

“Th-thank you.”

The chest sits on Alistair’s desk for days, temptation to read them outweighed by uncertainty over what he might encounter inside. He asks Aeron whether he should even begin reading them now or wait.

“Until when?” she asks.

“Until…the time is right, I guess. Better.” Alistair draws in a breath, sighing a little as he gets into bed next to her. “There is still so much to think about right now. You need me. I can’t risk being emotionally distracted.”

Aeron nods slowly. She is silent for what feels like a long time, brushing her hair.

“I’m not sure you could have stopped me if I was given a box of my mother’s letters.”

“No?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been thinking about her a lot, actually. I miss her more now than I ever have. She was the first one to teach me about combat, but she never got the chance to teach me about how to succeed at—at all this. That lack of knowledge still scares me. It’s kind of strange, actually—”

“What is?” asks Alistair.

“I think being a mother scares me more than facing down the Archdemon did.”

He laughs a little, pats her hand. “That makes two of us, my love, and yet I couldn’t be happier. I couldn’t ask for a better partner in all of this.”

“Nor could I, my dear.” Aeron gives his hand a gentle squeeze. “Nor could I.”

 **…and Amidst Them, Something New.**  
The letters smell faintly of cinnamon and cloves. They are pressed neatly one behind the other, as many as can fit. (Alistair gives up counting after fifty.) All of the letters are in envelopes. Most bear Maric’s wax seal, but others appear as if the letters were written and stuffed away in haste.

Just one. Alistair decides he will read _just one_ letter. The rest of them can wait until after he and Aeron are well and truly settled into the routine of parenthood. He reaches in, eyes closed, and pulls one at random from about the middle of the chest. The bust of a Mabari hound graces the wax keeping the envelope sealed. Alistair tries to picture Maric—his father, a man known only from a distance—taking the time to sit at a desk and write a message _for him_. A message meant wholly and completely for Alistair’s eyes alone. The result is like trying to see through a fog, the shapes blurred and constantly shifting before he can truly focus. Hopefully, the letter is more concrete.

> _Alistair,_
> 
> _They say that you are faring well in your studies at the monastery, that you possess the potential to become a fine Templar. The news does warm my heart, though it means you continue to travel a path separate from my own. If only circumstances had been different, that you could have stayed with me; I would have liked to know you as father to son, to have you know Cailan as your brother. Perhaps I was cowardly when your mother made me promise to see you raised under another’s roof, but I believed that she was right. I believed it was for your best. Part of me still does believe this._
> 
> _One day, when you are grown into adulthood, I would very much like us to gather privately and discuss everything as men. No doubt, you have questions, and so much of your life has been built on secrets to protect you. You deserve the truth._
> 
> _Alistair, someday you might have the fortune to fall in love, perhaps even to marry and sire children of your own. Do not let their value go without notice. Do not be unwilling to do what is necessary to keep them near you. A man may have his wealth, may have the power of nations and influence, but where is he without the family who loves him and in whom he can trust? My grief blinded me and left me fearful of my own failure to be what Cailan needed of me. My desire to protect you, to see you have as normal a life as you could have, has left us at the distance of strangers. I pray that you will not repeat what I have done. May the Maker bless you with wisdom to be the father to your children that I could not be to you, and may He one day align your path with mine so that I might share with you my pride in the man you will no doubt become._

As he puts the letter down, Alistair is surprised to find himself genuinely moved. His childhood was not perfect, no. There were times, too many times, when he felt more like a burden than any child should be allowed to feel. And yet…

Another letter catches his attention in the chest. It stands out, perhaps made that way when he pulled the first envelope. Curiosity prods at his mind. What harm could there be in reading another one? The envelope on this one doesn’t even appear to have a seal! It would be easy. Quick, maybe. How bad could it really be?

He has it open and unfolded before he can really register the texture of the paper in his hands. The penmanship in this one is slightly more hurried, the ink somewhat smudged in places, but it is unmistakably Maric’s handwriting—and it reveals one of his few remaining secrets.

“Maker’s breath…”

**Anticipation.**  
There are several false starts. Painful cramps strike at the most inopportune times. At one point, it almost seems like the Warden-Commander will be giving birth on the training grounds, surrounded by subordinates.

“False labor.” The Dalish midwife smiles kindly at them after the incident. “Your child has an eager spirit.”

“Maybe too eager,” Aeron murmurs.

She spends more time in bed. Headaches and back pain keep her there even while she’s awake. It feels like someone has loosened whatever keeps her joints together; the slightest touch, she swears, might cause her to fall apart. Alistair delegates as many duties as he can entrust to others so that he can stay with her as much as possible. An air of excitement spreads through the compound. Some of the Wardens start running bets about when the birth will actually take place. Others put money towards guessing the baby’s weight. Alistair disapproves.

“Let them have their fun,” Aeron says. “We can ask for a percentage later, for the treasury.”

For a moment, it diffuses the nervousness living in Alistair’s face. “Clever.”

 **…in which a Woman is Most like a God.**  
The moment finally comes during a clear evening when the moon is full. The first contractions awaken Aeron from sleep, sharp and clear and worse than anything she has experienced in battle. A cold sweat breaks out over her skin. Her cheeks are flushed. She is grateful when the midwife offers her a plug of herbs to chew on. The pain isn’t gone, but it is lessened. Bearable. Aeron can handle the midwife’s careful inspection.

“How much longer, do you think?” Alistair’s voice is full of nervousness.

“Hours, perhaps.” The midwife is calm. She wipes her hands on her apron. “How are you feeling, Commander?”

“I’ve been a hell of a lot better,” Aeron answers flatly, “and that’s counting the one time I might have actually died.”

Alistair laughs mostly out of nervousness. He brushes her hair back from her face. “Have I mentioned recently how much I love you?”

“This afternoon.” The Elf shuts her eyes and, as another contraction threatens to begin, draws in a deep breath. “But it’s always nice to hear.”

The hours feel the longest they have ever experienced. When the work of delivery finally begins in earnest, not once does Alistair leave his wife’s bedside. He holds her hand, wipes the sweat from her face. He prays, too, silently.

_Let this be quicker. Let them both be safe._

It tears at him to see his love in so much pain. _Helpless_ is too kind a word. Each push demands so much of her. And yet…he is in awe of how she bears it. Aeron has always displayed her strength, her courage, but this… A fire burns in her eyes. She bears her teeth in as much a way that makes him think of wolves as in a grimace.

“Relax,” says the midwife.

Aeron falls back against the hill of gathered pillows with a soft cry. Her grip on Alistair’s hand relaxes but she does not let go. He leans forward, presses the cool washcloth to her brow, her cheeks. Some of the tension leaves her face. Another push, the midwife says, maybe two more.

“Not much longer now, my love,” Alistair tells her. “You can do this.”

“Alistair—” Aeron leans as much into his touch as she can, still trying to catch her breath. “I’m so tired.”

“I can’t even imagine. But you’re strong, too. Do you know that? So very, very strong. The growing envy of Andraste.”

There is the briefest flicker of a smile on her lips. “Flatterer…”

The midwife calls Aeron’s name. The fire rekindles in her eyes. Her grip around Alistair’s hand tightens. She takes in a deep breath.

“One more push.”

“Or two,” says the midwife.

“No—” Aeron shakes her head. “No, I can feel it—this is… I can feel it.”

And she is right; another push is all it takes before her sounds of pain mingles with a higher, sharper cry that fills the room. She collapses against the pillows, gasping, relieved. Done! Over! Their child is here, finally _here_! All the months of waiting, of nervousness and fear and expectations, all for this moment.

The midwife smiles as she places the child in Aeron’s arms. “She is beautiful, Commander.”

The child looks up at them with large, dark eyes that leave Alistair almost delirious and giggling with love. “A daughter!” he says. “ _Our_ daughter! _Maker’s breath_ , look at her!”

“Oh, she’s beautiful. She is. She’s so very beautiful.” Smiling exhaustively, tears of relief still running down her face, Aeron holds the little bundle close to her heart. “Hello, my little one. Welcome home.”

They name her Rhiannon, and she is perfect because she is theirs.

**Revelry.**  
Word spreads fast through the compound by way of a younger member turned messenger. A baby girl! Their Commander is well, though well-spent from the effort. The Warden-Constable sits with her and the child, beside himself with joy.

For the moment, any bets placed have been forgotten. Now is no time to call in debts. The Wardens have rarely let a victory go uncelebrated, and the victory of bringing new life into the world against every possible risk is as worthy as any achieved in traditional battle. In the mess hall, the best of the wine is brought up from the cellar. It is opened and shared freely. Someone produces a guitar. Another brings out a flute. There is clapping. Dancing. Singing begins, loud and boisterous and off key. Others join in.

Amidst this revelry, someone calls for a toast.

“A drink for the Commander and the Constable! A salute for the Little Warden!”

And the uniting cry that goes up in response would make an army of darkspawn quiver in their boots.

 **An Epilogue of Sorts.**  
The child whimpers and cries in her cot. Aeron wakes up first. Alistair is quick to follow.

“Wait.” He rests his hand on her arm. “Let me—”

“But she might be hungry.”

“And she might just need changing. I can do that.” Alistair shuffles out of bed. “It’s raining outside, too. She might just be scared…”

“Bring her regardless of the reason. It’s kind of…” Aeron tries to stifle a yawn. “It’s cold, don’t you think?”

The candle she lights at bedside only just misses revealing his knowing little smile, the one that softens as Alistair approaches the cot. “Hey, now, my little darling. What’s wrong? Hm? What’s got you so cross?”

Even now, with weeks of practice, it makes him nervous to pick her up. She is so small, so delicate, and his hands have never been the steadiest that he has known. But as Alistair holds her to his chest, Rhiannon cries a little more quietly, and he feels that much more like he might succeed at this fatherhood thing. He already has the unconditional love aspect pretty down pat, along with the unquestionable desire to protect her from harm at all costs…

“Well, she’s dry. There doesn’t appear to be any…hidden presents…” But he checks again, somewhat closer to the light. “No. Nothing, which I have to admit, is _kind of_ a relief. That last one nearly knocked me over. I had no idea—I mean, I had some, but _Maker_ , she’s still only drinking milk!”

Aeron laughs a little. “Such is the mysterious nature of children.”

“I suppose…” When Rhiannon’s cries begin to pick up again, he presses a little kiss to her head. “Hey, now. Hey… It’s a little too early to be practicing that war cry, you know. You’re much too young for that.”

“I told you, she’s probably hungry.” Aeron holds out her arms. “You’ll get her right back, my love.”

“It’s not that I’m reluctant…” Though he is, even as he passes the child to her mother. “She’s just so precious.”

“Like her father.”

“Oh, maybe, but I’m not near as adorable. She gets that from you.”

Aeron smiles a little, brushing her finger across Rhiannon’s tiny fingers as the child nurses. “You know, it still hasn’t quite set in yet? She’s just so… And her little _ears_ , Alistair, I never dreamed—” She chuckles, shakes her head a bit. “And to think you might never have known without that letter…”

Alistair settles cross-legged on his side of the bed. He still has no idea how he will deal with that, whether he will try to learn more or leave those new questions unanswered. If Alistair has to be honest, however, right now it matters little. Right now, he is simply too content. This presence of family, this dream of lovely wife and beautiful child finally realized; how different a turn his life has taken in these mere four years!

“I still can’t believe she’s here, that she’s ours… I mean how crazy is this, that we’re parents now, when just four years ago, we weren’t sure if we would even live to the end of the day?”

“That, I certainly _do not_ miss,” Aeron points out.

“Oh, neither do I, clearly. Still, we… Here we are. You and me, _we did this_. We made this child. This life. A-and then _you_ —! You brought her through into the world. To us.” Alistair laughs into his hands. “Oh… You are indeed a wonder, my love.”

“Hm. If I am, it’s not from anything I’ve done alone. It was the strength I derived from others, from their love and their support, that saw me through even the Blight. My father, our friends, you…” Aeron glances at him. “If I can teach her that…that it’s okay to trust yourself _and_ the ones who love you… I just want her to have the comfort of that strength.”

“And she will have it, and then some. It will start with us.”

“It has to—hm?” She looks down at the soft sound Rhiannon makes. A little smile reappears on the Warden-Commander’s lips as the child yawns. “Well, then, finished? Hm?”

“I could burp her—! I mean, if you wanted t—in case you wanted to sleep some more—” Alistair clears his throat. “I-I could do it.”

His wife’s amusement is wordless. Carefully, they pass the child between them. As he holds her close, preparing to begin, Rhiannon coos softly, and Alistair falls in love all over again.


End file.
